


there's a certain kind of heat to the night

by sskkyyrraa



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drinking, M/M, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-17 12:39:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4666851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sskkyyrraa/pseuds/sskkyyrraa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes being drunk at the local college bar is just too much for an introvert like Simmons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	there's a certain kind of heat to the night

Simmons pushes open the door, away from the crowded bar and into the quiet, cool air. He ignores the angry exclamation from whoever he just hit and bee lines it to the curb. He falls to the ground with little to no grace, drawing his knees to his chest and dropping his head between them. He sucks in gasping breaths, his head swimming from cheap alcohol and a rising panic attack. A hand settles on his back, heavy between his shoulder blades. It's a grounding weight and Simmons uses it to focus his breathing. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. Slowly, his breathing steadies and his body relaxes.

“You alright?” asks the hand. Okay, maybe it's not the actual hand that talks but Simmons is drunk and he doesn't recognize the voice, so the only thing that makes sense to him is a sentient, dismembered hand.

Simmons shifts his head to the left, effectively rubbing away any residual tears. The guy who the voice actually belongs to is crouched beside him. His left hand is extended away from the two of them, a lit cigarette trailing smoke between his fingers. His dark brown face is soft and round, eyes concerned. Simmons tucks his head away because of course the guy is cute and he's a drunk mess.

“I'm good,” he cracks, voice muffled in his leg.

“You sure? Do you need, like, water of something?” The hand is removed and Simmons feels like he's floating again. He desperately wants the contact reestablished. He doesn't say anything, shaking his head. Water sure would be nice, he thinks, but the thought is lost in his throat, watching the stranger bring the cigarette to his lips. Simmons is captured in the moment as the man rocks back on his heels, pulling a long drag and streaming the smoke up and away from the conversation. Simmons wets his lips, swallows hard.

“You're Donut's friend, yeah? I'm Grif,” the man, Grif, says. When Simmons concentrates on more than his lips and fingers, on more than the bright embers, he can recognize him from the group that Donut had introduced him to earlier in the night. Grif had been the short one with the glowing, orange holes in his ears and a lazy smile that lit up his face.

“I'm drunk,” Simmons decides is the best thing to say right now. He becomes distracted by how dark Grif's eyes are, how nice they would look if the haze of the smoke weren't in the way. Grif takes another slow drag and Simmons' heart is in his throat. He really shouldn't be turned on by smoking and if he were sober he would be throwing a fit, but for now, for now things were okay.

“You sure are,” Grif says with a laugh and a wide smile. His laugh is loud, dorky, and genuine. It makes Simmons blush. Grif snuffs out his cigarette and sits himself down on the pavement. “Do you want me to get Donut?”

“God, no. I just, I just need a moment. Hold on,” Simmons says. He presses his palms to his eyes, breathes in through his nose, out through his mouth. The air smells like tobacco and beer. Grif holds out a cigarette in offering. Simmons can't keep the disgust off his face because he's not _that_ drunk. Grif tosses his head back and barks out another full bellied laugh. His voice cracks and Simmons is blushing again.

“You're a funny dude, you know that, right?” Grif teases. Simmons' face flushes with anger because there's nothing funny about healthy lungs. He tells Grif as much but he just snorts, lighting up. 

“Christ, you're an asshole,” Simmons says. He frowns, eyes following Grif's fingers. He's too easily distracted. He feels as if he needs to sit down but he's already on the ground. He stretches out his legs and reaches for his ankles. It doesn't help necessarily but it gives him something to look at that's not Grif.

“Thanks, it's all a part of my charm.”

“Why do hot guys always think it's okay to be awful?”

“Hey, I wouldn't say I'm awful! We've all got our weaknesses. Mine's a nicotine addiction and yours is fat dudes with piercings, apparently.” 

“The dad bod is very in right now.” This makes Grif pause, his eyes going wide. Then he narrows his eyes, studying Simmons for a long moment. Simmons looks away, rolls his body up into a sitting position. 

“You serious?” Grif asks. Simmons is delighted to hear the nervous tone. He glances over and becomes lightheaded because Grif is most definitely blushing. He tries to hide behind his cigarette.

“Only if you want me to be,” Simmons says. The alcohol in his system sings with confidence. 

“Give me your phone,” Grif says, his face serious and intense. Simmons hesitates before unlocking and handing over his cell phone. Grif fingers fumble as his rushes through his task, shoving the phone back into Simmons' hand. He stands up, cigarette in his mouth, hands in his pocket. Simmons feels the heat of where their hands touched for just half a moment.

“What'd you do?”

“Texted Donut to come get you. You're fucking wasted, man,” Grif says, his voice rough. He licks his lips. Simmons stares. He quickly looks away, seeing the open thread with Donut. He's already responded, telling him not to go anywhere, he was on his way. Simmons frowns. He can't help but be at least a little disappointed. “I also, uh, put in my number. So text me. In the morning. If you're serious. I know this diner that serves the perfect hangover food. Breakfast all day.”

Simmons' face splits in two with his grin. He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but the bar door slams hard against the wall. Donut rushes toward them, Simmons' red cardigan slung over his arm.

“Simmons! Oh. My. God! Are you okay? I've been worried sick. Literally, though, I threw up. I'm so glad I found you. I've got an Uber driver on its way. Are you hurt? Can you walk? Did you throw up? Do you--” 

“Donut, 'M fine. Let's just go home. I need a nap,” Simmons interrupts. Donut is fussing, hands on Simmons' face, throwing his sweater over his shoulders, buttoning it up to keep it from falling. They grip hands and Donut pulls him up on his feet. They stumble into each other, giggling. Simmons lets Donut link arms with him so they can lean on each other for the short walk from the back of the bar to the front where the car would be waiting. Simmons stops, turns around to Grif with the same goofy grin as before.

“I'll text you, yeah?”

“Yeah, I hope so.”

 


End file.
